


All That Is Fair

by direSin



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Timeline, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-24 04:55:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30066996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/direSin/pseuds/direSin
Summary: The moor stood empty and open before me, a thin mist hovering above. I saw no ruddy light of explosions; heard no cannonade, no sounds of gunfire. The quiet around me was broken only by the gusts of wind sweeping over the hill, startling the trees into loud rasping whispers. The battle would have lasted less than an hour. It must be over by now.
Relationships: (mentioned) Geneva Dunsany/Jamie Fraser, Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser
Comments: 14
Kudos: 66





	1. Begin Again

**Author's Note:**

> This story is mostly based on the books but there are a few instances where I prefer the show's version of the events and chose to use those. The 1700s timeline follows that of the books though some minor adjustments had to be made to fit the story's narrative. More tags may be added with the upcoming chapters. 
> 
> I enjoy creating situations where the characters have to work on their relationship without dramatic external events providing a convenient resolution, so this won't be a cute fluffy 'Jamie and Claire reunite to live happily ever after' story. But I can promise that I will not leave them separated and/or miserable in the end.

There was light, somewhere; a bright light, pulsing. My heart thumped, responding to its erratic rhythm. My face felt rigid and unfamiliar, the eyelids dense as marble. It took some effort to force them open. Slowly, gradually images coalesced. Only fragments at first - the tilting sky, a swatch of earth, sunlight slanting through the bare branches of a tree. A raven sidled along a branch, preening glossy black feathers. It wiped its beak on the branch, then cocked its head to regard me with one beady eye.

With difficulty I pushed myself up on my elbows. The raven muttered in its throat, shifting from foot to foot, and took wing. I could make out, beyond the flat edge of a granite shelf, a rocky hill sloping down and away. There was a stone cottage near its crest.

Memory returned in a relentless surge.

_Tomorrow I will die. This child is all that will be left of me - ever. I ask ye, Claire - I beg you - see it safe._

I swallowed tears as I dragged myself to kneel.

_It’s me that has the easy part now. For if ye feel for me as I do for you - then I am asking you to tear out your heart and live without it. But ye must do it, mo nighean donn._

I staggered upright, flinging out both arms, and shoved my hair out of my eyes.

No path ran winding down the hillside. There should be a path, narrow and uneven and difficult to walk on - but easily seen.

At first my mind refused to accept the truth; it skipped and then stuck, not quite able to process the vague, disjointed sense-memories that made my bones ache. Lines of light like bundled fibers, laid in an intricate network… a flare of light, momentarily blinding… the unexpected impact and the sudden darkness... It had been as though a heavy door slammed in my face, only worse, a hundred times worse.

When understanding finally came a mad laugh rose in my throat. I stifled it, running my hands blindly over my face, willing myself to take a breath, to let it out again.

The moor stood empty and open before me, a thin mist hovering above. I saw no ruddy light of explosions; heard no cannonade, no sounds of gunfire. The quiet around me was broken only by the gusts of wind sweeping over the hill, startling the trees into loud rasping whispers.

The battle would have lasted less than an hour. It must be over by now.

Gorse bushes caught at my skirts, dragging me back as I started down the slope of the hill. I tore free, forcing my way onward. My heart gave a painful jolt once I neared the ruined cottage but there was not a trace of human presence there, only moldering rubble and cold stone. It chilled me to realize I might have found Jamie here, weltering in his own blood. At least the redcoats he’d been fighting when I’d hurled myself through the stones hadn’t killed him.

The thought steadied me, stiffening my spine.

By the time I reached the woodland below I was breathless. Pines closed in on me, dark-green and forbidding, roots poking out among the browning ferns to trip me up. Before long my legs were trembling with strain. I had lost all sense of direction, exhaustion so deep in my bones that I couldn’t think, when I came at last across a drover’s road. It would eventually lead me someplace - a village, a town; I was past caring where. I trudged on blindly, the way one flees in a nightmare, until the ground rushed up to meet me, striking hard.

: :

It was the jolting that woke me. I became aware that I lay atop straw - it was prickling my cheek. Clouds loomed in the sky, blocking out the sun, and the air blew cold and damp across my face. From the incessant lurching motion and the sound of plodding of hooves I was riding in a wagon bed. Cautiously I sat up, bracing myself on one arm.

The man perched in the driver’s seat turned to look at me over his shoulder. He had blunt, placid features and a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard, his dark hair beneath the tricorn liberally streaked with gray. I didn’t think I had met him before.

“There you are, my dear,” he said. “How do you feel?”

“You’re English,” I blurted, as yet too slow-witted to keep my thoughts to myself.

The man eyed me with composed interest. “Indeed I am, my lady,” he said formally. He gathered the reins in one hand and, touching his hat with the other, inclined his head to me. “Anthony Danford, your servant.”

“Claire… Beauchamp," I said, stumbling only slightly. Slow-witted or no, I had enough sense not to name myself a Fraser to an Englishman in the aftermath of Culloden.

A shudder ran through me that had nothing to do with the chill in the air. I had seen my share of battlefields strewn with bodies, entrails spilled and stinking, crows plucking gobbets of flesh, the buzzing clouds of flies that gathered -

_I won’t think of it now. I can’t stand it if I do. I’ll think of it tomorrow._

Who was it that said that? Some fictional character; Scarlett O’Hara, I recalled after a moment. Her tried-and-true defense against the world.

_Tomorrow is another day._

Mr. Danford watched me repress a shiver. “Here,” he said as he fumbled one-handed in his coat to produce a small pocket flask. “I’ll wager you could do with a drop.”

The brandy made me choke and sputter, spilling out the corners of my mouth, but a good deal of it went down my throat. A wave of nausea gripped my stomach and I dug my nails into my palms, praying I wouldn’t vomit.

“Too strong, is it?” Mr. Danford glanced apologetically at me.

With an effort of will I quelled the sensation of sickness. “It’s only that I drank too fast, I think. In any case, it does help with the cold.”

“Just so. Mrs. Danford shall make you a nice cup of tea, of course, but we’ve another few hours before we arrive. With any luck we’ll be there before sundown - Hallowtide is not the time to be out and about in the dark.”

“Hallowtide,” I repeated, feeling slow and stupid.

Mr. Danford’s eyebrows went up. “Why, yes. It is All Souls’ Day.”

I swallowed against a mouth gone dry.

“Do you not recall, my lady?” Mr. Danford bore a look of extreme bafflement.

I groped for a plausible explanation but none presented itself. I couldn’t dredge up anything to say.

“Well.” He shook his head, dismissing the awkward pause, the curiosity in his gaze turning to pity. “It’ll come back to you in time, I’m sure.” He ran his hand over his jaw and turned away.

I drew a steadying breath and tilted the flask for another swallow. This time the brandy didn’t burn on its way down, only a dull warmth followed. “Where is ‘there’?” I asked.

“Begging your pardon?”

“You said, ‘We’ll be there before sundown’.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. I meant Culloden House - it’s where my wife and I currently reside. I’ve been engaged by Mr. John Forbes to supervise the restoration of the estate; it was damaged during the Rising, you see. The rebels used it as headquarters and - ” Mr. Danford grimaced faintly. “Well, suffice it to say they were disinclined to mind its condition.”

The Lord of Culloden had remained staunchly loyal to the Crown, he went on to explain, raising a number of regiments to oppose the rebellion. As a result the estate had been plundered, partially burned and otherwise treated without regard.

“I see.” The words caught in my throat. I _had_ seen - no more than a few days ago. But it was early November now; All Souls’ Day, he had said. My sluggish mind was tiredly trying to take that in, wondering if it was for better or worse.

The brandy brought a measure of strength to me and with the strength came the pricking of tears. They blurred my vision as I turned my right hand over, palm up, and stared at the barely-healed scar shaped like a letter ‘J’ at the base of my thumb.

Mr. Danford, having to watch the road, thankfully took no notice. “Mr. Forbes - that is, Mr. Duncan Forbes - nonetheless protested the… ungentle treatment of the wounded Jacobites brought to the estate,” he was saying. “An honorable sentiment, to be sure, but not, I’m afraid, altogether wise: he was denied recompense for the troops raised or the damage to his property. He passed away the year after, God rest him, and it was quite a while before his son was able to restore the family’s fortune.”

My blood ran cold in my veins. _Quite a while, quite a while, quite a while_ went round and round in my ears, even as Mr. Danford continued, “The manor house remained largely intact, however. As for the rest, we’ve only just arrived last Tuesday week but I am pleased to say the repairs are underway. I assure you it’s quite comfortable, all in all.” He tilted his head in polite inquiry. “You would of course be a welcome guest.”

My lips felt stiff as I forced myself to speak. “Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Danford,” I said, meaning it, and tried an approximation of a smile.

“Think nothing of it, my dear.”

He made no attempt to engage me in a conversation after that and I was grateful. I was tired, tired to the bone. He had turned the horse at right angles some time back and we were on a wider, smoother road. I rested my head against my bent knees, locking my arms around them, and closed my eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The briefly-mentioned history of Culloden House is entirely real. Duncan Forbes, the 5th Lord Culloden and Lord President of the Court of Sessions - the most senior representative of the British Crown in Scotland at the time - raised 18 regiments to oppose the Rising. But after the battle of Culloden he loudly protested the brutal executions of the wounded prisoners, throwing his political weight behind it. As a result he faced overwhelming debt. After his death (the following year) his son made excellent use of the exemption to distill whisky free from taxes, granted to the family in the 17th century; in time John Forbes rebuilt the family's wealth and began the restoration of their Culloden estate.


	2. Far Away

He stood knee-deep in the burn, clad only in his kilt. The fish fought him, wriggling and leaping, its sides flashing silver. On the rocky ledge Claire gasped when she saw its size. The boy beside her was shifting from foot to foot with excitement, a stout branch in his hand.

Jamie waded toward them, fighting the thrashing fish for every inch of it. “What d’ye think, Sassenach?” he asked, tossing it at Claire’s feet.

It landed with a splat and the boy made shift to strike it with his club. The fish appeared to take exception to it. It flopped, surprising him, and kept on flopping until he fell on it, struggling to hook his fingers in its gills. Nothing daunted, it heaved wildly under him, skin and scales glistening in the bright summer sun.

“A glorious battle, worthy of a song,” Claire said, laughing. Clusters of small yellow flowers brushed her skirts, dusting the tartan with pollen.

Jamie laughed along with her, watching boy and fish wrestle.

“Aren’t you going to help?” she asked after a moment.

He shook his head. “He’ll manage.”

She took two steps, leaned forward to grip his shoulders and kissed him. His arms came hard around her, hands sliding along her back as he lifted her from the rocks. He could feel the lush swell of her breasts against his chest and her mouth was soft and warm, sweet with promise; it was everything desire meant to him. They parted breathless and staring at one another.

He lowered her to stand before him and glanced down. “What are ye grinning at, ye wee fiend?”

“Nothing.” The boy darted a look at them, blue eyes sly and mirthful. “I can take it to the kitchen on my own. See?” He bent down and hoisted the conquered fish by main strength. “I’ll tell Auntie Jenny not to let anyone come here for a bit,” he added, all innocence.

Claire touched his damp hair, plastered to his cheeks in dark-red coils. “All right, love,” she said lightly. “Go on, then.”

He went, holding the fish overhanging in his arms, alight with glee.

“Too clever by half,” Jamie said and trailed off. Claire was looking at him.

It was a torment all of its own but he stood still under her regard, water dripping from him, aware of every breath of air on his skin, alive with lust. She felt it too - it was easy to read on her as anything. God, he was going to make her writhe with pleasure, until all she could do was cling to him and gasp -

“Shut yer gob, dammit!” A loud rustle of a body turning over in a huff came from a pallet on the other side of the loft.

“What the bloody hell?” a new voice demanded, hoarse.

“The Scotchman was dreaming of buggering sheep,” the first one explained in resigned tones.

He’d been making noises in his sleep, then. Jamie felt a slow flush rise to his cheeks. A pleasurable ache still burned in his belly; just as well he didn’t get to the rest of it.

In the darkness someone hawked and spat. “The Scotchman can bugger ‘is mother for all I care, long as ‘e keeps it quiet.”

Jamie lay still, balling his fists against the impulse to lash out. It would be a relief, a blessed relief, to give in to violence, and a large part of him was savagely in favor of taking their blether as an excuse. What did it matter if the true source of his anger lay elsewhere?

And come to think of it, what was to stop him? He was a prisoner of war and a convicted traitor, kept in menial servitude at the Crown’s whim. The English lord to whom the estate belonged had no power to change his sentence nor the leave to discipline him; he could only wag a finger at him and apprise the officer supervising his parole.

Aye, and what could Major John William Grey do to him that had not been done already? He had been flogged within an inch of his life, more than once; marched across his ravaged homeland with a rope round his neck; locked away in a cell, wearing irons for years. Whatever indignity the wee Major might come up with, like as not someone had beaten him to it.

Well, then. One more word, Jamie decided. One more fool word from yon poutworms. He could feel his pulse beating in the tight clench of his fingers.

Not so much as a sigh issued from across the loft, the silence unsure, wary. They must have sensed the fury coiling in him, the way a rabbit kens impending danger and freezes low to the ground. Aye, well. They were right to be scairt. It used to frighten him too, to know this was in him - the sort of rage that could only spend itself in another’s suffering. But he had long since learned to accept his own mortal failings.

Jamie rolled onto his side and breathed deep. The anger drowned in a swell of grief that rose in him as the dream touched him again for a fleeting moment, warm and golden, like the last of fading sunlight. He clenched his teeth until the pain in his jaw hurt more than the ache in his heart, groping for the beechwood rosary he wore under the shirt. _Lord, that she might be safe, she and the child._

A gust of wind rattled the heavy stable door, smelling of coming snow. Downstairs a horse shifted in its box, whickering, and another answered. He wouldn't sleep anymore; there was no point in lingering. He flung back the threadbare blanket and got to his feet.

A strange, dispassionate sense of calm overtook him. He wondered idly, as he dressed, how long he was meant to stay at Helwater. The men transported to the Colonies from Ardsmuir were indentured for seven years but he didn’t suppose it applied to him. Grey had said no such thing, in any case; hadn’t said anything at all. Most like he would be held here - or else somewhere worse - until the day he died or was granted a pardon, whichever came first. He wasn’t minded to bet on the latter.

There was, of course, the obvious: he could run. He thought about it, now and again. No one stood guard over him and the Lake District wasn’t Ardsmuir, with its miles and miles of frozen moorland stretching in every direction. He had little doubt he should contrive to make it to France if he put his mind to it. And he well might have done - except for the cold certainty that it would be Jenny and Ian and the tenants of Lallybroch paying the price of his freedom.

Dawn was beginning to seep in through the gaps in the walls, giving shape to his newest cage. Jamie climbed down the ladder to the stable and picked up a hayfork.


End file.
